Building Home
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: After Mary dies, John decides it's time to leave London. Meanwhile, Sherlock is struggling to work out where he stands in John's life now that Mary has gone. Written for a kinkmeme prompt - shown inside.
1. Chapter 1

Building Home

Written for this prompt:

After Sherlock comes back after Reichenbach, John is with Mary. They get married (Sherlock is John's best man) and live together happily for several years, until Mary dies (terminal illness, accident...). John is devastated and pulls through only thanks to Sherlock's help and support. John doesn't start dating until a few years later and only casually because no one can ever replace Mary in his heart, and eventually gives up on it completely, finding happiness in his stable friendship with Sherlock. Slowly though, achingly slowly, their relationship progresses into something more, and finally, years after Mary's death, they become a couple.

Even though Sherlock's well into his forties now (or even fifties, if you prefer), it's his first time, first kiss, first everything. He'd never felt any interest in anyone until John, and he's been in love with John for years but never believed his feelings could be returned. Even after they get together, Sherlock is convinced John doesn't love him nearly as much as he loved Mary.

TL;DR, basically, I'd like to see an extremely slow relationship buildup with a pining Sherlock on the side.

* * *

It was unsurprising that John wanted to leave London.

In the year since Mary died, John had become quiet, withdrawn. He came to one out of five cases and only then when it seemed to be dangerous. Whether it was because he couldn't bear the idea of losing another person or because he had a death wish, Sherlock didn't know.

Didn't want to know.

He hadn't moved back in. John had seemed determined that he had to stay on his own, had to prove something to himself. Had to struggle on with a job to keep up the rent.

He seemed reluctant to touch the money Mary had left him.

Often, on a weekend, John could be found at the graveyard visiting his late wife. Whether or not he was aware of the fact Sherlock found him was something they did not discuss.

Just like the fact that they did not discuss the fact that Sherlock's headstone had once stood in the same graveyard.

He'd been so angry, Sherlock thought as he watched John. Furious. He'd hit Sherlock, stomped around and yelled bloody murder at him. It had been Mary who had soothed John, calmed him down and talked to him.

It had been Mary who had glared at Sherlock and told him it was his one chance to make things better with John.

She'd been frustratingly good for John. It was a lot harder to persuade John that marriage was stupidity when Mary had been as interesting as she had been.

And she'd made John smile.

No matter how much Sherlock had searched, he had never quite managed to find her wanting.

They should have had children, Sherlock thought as he watched John kneeling by the grave. That was what people did, was it not? Marriage, children, grandchildren. A cottage and flowers, slippers and shared crosswords.

John could make those things interesting.

* * *

John moved to Sussex two months later using the money Mary had left him and his own savings.

Sussex.

What was in Sussex? Grass?

Dull.

It took John three months to invite Sherlock down. Annoying certainly and, had he not been in the arse end of nowhere, Sherlock would have gone long before he was invited.

As it was, he did not wish to spend the evening in the company of dull country people making idle chit-chat about village gossip. If John refused him access then he would have gone a long way for nothing.

Besides, he was given to understand it was polite to wait for an invitation.

Even if the inviter was slow.

* * *

Sherlock glared at the house as John walked around to get the bag he had brought.

"It's old."

John stopped next to him and tilted his head. "You are aware that Baker Street is hardly an example of modern architecture?"

"Isolated."

John turned to peer down the road where the main part of the village was just in sight, a five minute walk if that. A grin appeared. "I don't have to put up with stupid people," he said with a wink.

Amused by the game, Sherlock leaned against the gate post. "Ill-kept."

John's grin fled. "I'm doing it up," he protested. "It's my project. Should have seen it when I first moved in. I had to beg mercy from the couple down the road to use their bathroom."

"And you…chose this?"

"It's mine," John said, the smile reappearing. "All my life…I've moved in with people, shared. This is mine, how I want it. Or it will be," he conceded. "It feels good."

Uncomfortable, Sherlock scowled. "You could have decorated the flat," he muttered.

John snorted. "You'd have set fire to it the following week."

* * *

The house itself was an old farming cottage that had been built in the eighteenth century (obvious from the brick work) and had been extended once in the twentieth century.

Inside was like a building site.

"Are you building it from scratch?" Sherlock asked as he ducked through.

"You nagged to see it," John pointed out. "I could have come to you."

The damned house had beams. Bloody beams. Fine for short-arses like John but Sherlock could well envision the back ache he would have by the end of the visit.

Wait.

"My room?"

John smiled.

* * *

The room was like a blank canvas. The floorboards had been stripped, sanded and were silky smooth underfoot. The walls had been properly plastered and painted, the windows replaced…all of them had been on the top floor of the house.

It was a good sized room, not the master bedroom, clearly but the view was interesting; he could see the village and a weeping willow overlooking the pond opposite.

There was even a bed.

"You like it?" John asked, leaning against the door frame.

"You are planning to paint it, I assume."

"Bloody hell, what more do you want?" John asked with a smile. "At least you have a door."

"Where's your room?"

John inclined his head in another direction and led the way along the narrow hall and past two other doors to the master room.

It was empty but for a mattress and a clothes rail. The old décor was still up.

"Why…why do this one last?" Sherlock asked as he stepped in. The shape of the room was interesting; there were nooks and crannies everywhere and two large windows that opened up to the garden.

"Not sure what I want," John said easily. "Guest room was easy. Just have to ask you what colours you want. You're the fussiest guest I'll have and…" he hesitated and looked away. "The most frequent I hope."

"You'll run out of money," Sherlock predicted looking around.

"Yeah…" John sighed. "Mary…" he cleared his throat, his voice sad. "She left enough for this…funny what the price of a London flat will get you. Had my own savings but…" he shook his head. "I think I quite like the idea of doing it right. Taking my time."

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

They ate their takeaway on Sherlock's bed like students.

Well…sort of takeaway. They didn't deliver so John had driven out to pick it up.

"It defies its name," Sherlock muttered with a scowl.

John laughed as he took a swig of beer. "I missed this," he said after a moment. "You, complaining."

"You missed me complaining?" Sherlock asked doubtfully. "The country air has driven you mad."

John smiled, leaning back. "It was my one….worry. That I'd move here, become boring and you'd think of me like an old man, good only for the knacker's yard."

"I think you're mad," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Giving up London?"

"Memories," John said after a moment. "It's easy to lose yourself in them, to drown. Turning down days out because it would mean not being able to visit a grave…I've done that too many times."

Unsure, Sherlock looked away.

* * *

The pillow smelt like John.

Sherlock shut down the thoughts that threatened.

He'd locked them away years ago when he'd returned to John with Mary, buried them when John had refused to date again.

They had different lives now. It was foolish.

And their friendship was far too treasured to risk on such idiocy.

Better not to acknowledge 'it', even to himself.

* * *

The next time Sherlock saw John was Christmas. John returned to London for the holiday; going to see his sister and sister in law. They spent Boxing day together getting drunk and laughing about the past.

* * *

It took a year before Sherlock went to see John at his house again.

Well…that was perhaps an overestimation of his willingness.

He'd been stabbed.

"Really, John? You bring me here? If there's a medical emergency I'll just die in the middle of Sussex. Do you have any idea how humiliating that would be?"

"Yeah," John said, checking the mirror. "Be bloody humiliating if, as a Doctor, I had you die in my house. Especially after managing to keep you alive for so long."

Sherlock was tempted to shift moodily but the pain in his side suggested that would be a foolish notion.

* * *

The house looked better as they drove up. The windows had all been replaced with a design that kept the character of the house. The front garden was neat and there was a little path leading up from the gate.

There was even a small driveway.

"You've been busy."

John shook his head. "Still got loads to do," he argued as he helped Sherlock ease out of the car.

* * *

They went through the front door and entered the hallway which was painted a cheerful yellow, sun streaming in through the side windows. The stairs were in the middle, a polished wood that spiralled upstairs.

It was cosy, inviting.

So...John.

"Think you can manage the stairs?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock conceded. "Why? Is your lounge as bare as it was last time?"

With a proud smile, John opened the lounge door.

It was a long room that extended the length of the house. On the garden side were glass doors leading out to a still wild garden. The chimney was opposite the doorway and a wood burner sat in the middle, unlit.

John had sectioned up the room; the side closest to the road was for watching television or curling up with a book. There was the sofa, worn and well-used, a table with a lamp and book placed upon it-

Second hand. They weren't the ones John and Mary had used.

"You bought these?"

"Exchanged," John explained. "They did me a good deal."

Mm. "The sofa is hideous," Sherlock decided as he walked over to the other half of the room.

It reminded him a little of the flat. There was a desk for writing, John's laptop perched upon it. The doors were framed by long, light curtains that would flutter in the wind when it was warmer and the doors were opened.

There was enough space for the armchairs in the flat to sit happily, side by side.

Unimpressed by his thought process, Sherlock stared into the garden. He'd be bored within a day if he moved here with John. His patience was likely to be tested within the next few hours, injured as he was.

* * *

The following Monday he found John outside, the lounge doors open as he surveyed the garden.

"You'll be a terrible gardener," Sherlock warned as he joined John outside, moving stiffly. "Sell it now and save yourself the trouble."

John smiled, his hands wrapped around his mug of tea. "Trying to decide what to do with it," he said as if Sherlock hadn't just made a useful suggestion.

Infuriating man. "Be a complete old man, grow vegetables."

"It's fashionable now," John commented in between sips. "Organic vegetables. I'll be the hit of the village."

There was something in the way that he said it that had Sherlock looking over at him cautiously. "You're not going to make me meet more inane women, are you?"

John shook himself and looked over hesitantly, then back at the garden. "I…there's someone. I'm not sure…" he tilted his head slightly as if considering. "I think…being alone for so long. It's more just about having someone pay you attention. Flattering," he said with a rueful shrug.

"I pay you attention," Sherlock muttered.

John laughed. "For which I am very grateful."

No. He hadn't meant….

What had he meant?

That was breaking the unspoken, un-thought rule.

And, even as his mind danced over that little bump, they flagged up something else and he stumbled for a moment as to how to phrase the question. Strangely, the memory of their first dinner, years ago flashed through him.

"Will…will I meet…him?"

John turned his head, enough to acknowledge what had been said but not far enough that Sherlock could clearly see his expression. "No," John said slowly. "I… as I said. It's flattering. It would be wrong to suggest it could be more."

There was a guilty twinge of relief even as his mouth opened and words spilled out. "You're a widower, John, not a monk."

John turned fully now and shot him an incredulous look. "We should get you inside," he decided after a moment. "Next thing I know you'll be forgetting the body is just transport and be suggesting a strip club."

"Given I resisted the numerous suggestions for your stag-do that seems highly unlikely."

* * *

"You should get bees," Sherlock decided feeling decidedly sleepy.

Blissful dugs. Even if they were as potent as a gnat.

"Bees?"

"Mm. You could make honey. Sell pots of it. I'm told that's a good way of catching things."

"You need to get up off the 'ugly' sofa," John said in a fond voice. "You'll hate me if you sleep here all night."

"Should use my sofa. My sofa is more comfortable than my bed."

"Get a better bed then," John muttered. "Come on."

* * *

He returned to London a week later, still not healed but with the promise of a case. John frowned and made mutterings about it but couldn't follow Sherlock up due to his job.

It was odd to leave. And the flat seemed so very quiet when he returned.

* * *

"You seem happier," Mycroft said as he came around to interfere and twirl his umbrella around the flat the following week.

"I hadn't seen you for over a month," Sherlock muttered. "Of course I was happy."

Mycroft finished circling the room and stood in front of him. "Will you ever tell Doctor Watson your true feelings?"

"The world knows how I feel about you," Sherlock said lifting up his book to block the annoying view of his brother trying to play mother hen.

"You love him."

Sherlock glared at the words. "He is a dear friend," he said eventually.

"And you are an idiot."

* * *

Due to the unspoken and un-thought rule that had dominated his life for almost a decade, it was almost impossible to tell when Sherlock had stumbled. Certainly there were only a handful of times in his life where he had lain awake and wondered, let himself indulge in self-pity and longing, in a fantasy that would harm more than it would help.

Matters of the body had never interested him. He had seen enough, understood enough. Sex was a vicious motivator and he refused to bear the heavy burden of its influence, of the power game that came hand in hand with such relationships. He had seen contemporaries lose their money, their drugs and their self-worth from it, watched too many break vows for it. Give a person the temptation of a naked body and the lengths one might go to were astounding.

And he was obsessive, possessive, thorough. He'd jumped off a building without having ever seen John topless for heaven's sake. God only knew what he would have done had they been intimate.

John was the only person he would consider falling for and the one person he would never risk. Their odd balance worked as long as they maintained their positions in this matter.

* * *

John ruined it.

"You're drunk," Sherlock muttered as John stumbled up to the flat.

"I think I downed a bottle of vodka on the train," John confessed as he sat heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs.

Was it a holiday? Birthday?

Had someone died?

"You are…upset?"

John shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Well if you have no idea how am I meant to know?"

John shook his head again. "Sherlock, can you just let me think?"

"You have an entire house to think in, John. I assume you came here to talk?"

Slowly, John rolled his head to face Sherlock, hands still cupping his mouth. "I'm having a crisis."

Sherlock stared at him. "And you came to me?"

Laughter filled the kitchen as John leaned back. "It…seemed like a good idea. As did that quarter litre of vodka."

Amused, Sherlock stood, wandering over to the kitchen. "Was it good vodka?"

John shook his head. "I'm nowhere near as drunk as I wanted to be."

Probably a good thing. John would need to help Sherlock coach him through this crisis. "Do you wish to drink or talk?" he asked, sitting down opposite his friend.

John fixed him with a long, searching gaze and leaned forward again. "I…kissed someone."

Someone up there absolutely hated him. "And it was terrible?" he asked flippantly.

"Well…yeah," John agreed. "I'm for too out of practise for that stuff now. And…first kiss since Mary and…" he hesitated and looked at the table.

"Stubble rash?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled. Barely a second later the smile fell away. "What am I doing?" he groaned into his hands as he covered his face. "Fuck sake, am I having a late midlife crisis?"

"The melodrama would suggest that is likely," Sherlock agreed.

John shook his head. "I'm an idiot," he decided. "I've moved to the middle of nowhere, I'm learning how to fix the electrics and grow a marrow and I even asked about bees before realising that would just remind me of you. I've…what am I doing?"

It was perfect. The opportunity Sherlock had been waiting for, to get John back, to solve crimes side by side-

"Dear Lord, John. Just because you have kissed a man does not mean you need to throw dramatic fits the moment you come to London."

Under John's hands there was a reluctant smile. "I don't…" he dropped the hands down. "He's not for me," he said slowly.

"The house is," Sherlock said softly.

John closed his eyes. "Well," he decided, sitting up. "You must be glad I don't live here anymore. Can you imagine the rumours that would be going around if people knew I'd just snogged some man on the doorstep?"

"Quite," Sherlock said, standing to find something for John to drink so he could pass out quickly.

* * *

That night, as John lay snoring on the sofa, Sherlock knelt down by him.

He wasn't entirely sure why…

Lie.

He couldn't keep doing it.

Leaning forward he pressed a long kiss to John's head, breathing in his smell (regretfully mostly hidden by the cheap vodka) and stroked the silvered and gold hair.

* * *

They talked over the next year via phone and the internet. They briefly crossed paths when John came up to London for a show with a group of friends he had made in the village.

But the next time they saw each other properly was at the hospital.

* * *

"Don't give me that look," Sherlock muttered as he dug deep into the potted dessert they'd given him.

"What look?"

"The 'you're an idiot' look."

"Ah," John nodded. "Well…stop being an idiot then."

Well he'd walked into that one he supposed. "I had to test-"

"Had to? You 'had to' test the drug?" John asked. "Were there no friends around for you to experiment on?"

"You're like a nagging old woman," Sherlock complained. "If I'd known how much you'd whine about it I wouldn't have bothered."

"Whine about being drugged? How rude of me," John quipped as he pushed off the wall. "I've told them I'll take you home."

"Not your home."

"Yes, my home. I need to keep an eye on you and I am all too aware of how easy you find it to lose me in London."

Interesting choice of words.

* * *

John was tackling the garden.

Eight o clock in the morning and the blethering idiot was outside with a small fork digging up a flower bed with a rather cautious air.

"The only acceptable reason for you to be doing this would be if there were bones under this," Sherlock muttered as he sat opposite John, crossed legged.

"I'm trying it out," John said, scraping the fork along the earth. "I have a patch cleared…" he squinted up at Sherlock in the weak morning light. "I could grow medicine."

Sherlock stared at him. "No."

"Poisons?"

Better. "You'd have some way of getting rid of unwelcome visitors that way."

"Hm," John looked back down. "I could just buy some flowers I suppose."

"I thought we agreed to plant poisons," Sherlock said. "We created a perfectly valid plan, John."

That made John look up with a grin. "Our plans usually end up in arrest or death."

Yes. "It's interesting."

"I am not getting arrested," John said, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Why not? It would be dangerous," Sherlock added, delighted at the smile on John's face.

"I…"

How had they gotten this close?

It was startling to realise it suddenly. They were so close that Sherlock could see John's stubble as he hadn't showered or shaved yet, could feel his breath-

They were both suddenly still.

It was a ghost of a touch, a brush of lips, hesitant and gentle.

Then more, a press he could feel, inhalation of breath and-

Air.

John pulled away looking horrified. "I didn't…I…sorry…shit," he winced, scooting back before standing up in an impressively quick move for a man his age.

Sherlock shook his head, not sure what to say. John's romantic encounters had been so scattered since Mary's death that it was hardly surprising he should flounder gracelessly and attempt to kiss friends.

Kiss.

It had hardly been a kiss. Unfortunate really, Sherlock thought as John scraped his hands over his face and turned back to the house. If they were going to have a few awkward conversations about what had just happened he would have preferred it to have been a proper kiss.

They were damned anyway.

With a steadying sigh, Sherlock stood up and followed John into the house. Ever predictable, John had fled to the kettle and was fiddling with it nervously.

"I shouldn't have done that," John said, turning to him suddenly. "I didn't…I would never do that. Not to you."

Keeping the table in between them, Sherlock resisted the urge to drum his fingers in annoyance upon the wood. "You needn't be quite so emphatic," he snapped.

That pulled an irritated sigh out of John. "I just meant…I know that makes you uncomfortable. I…it's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

There was something off about the phrasing of John's words. Curious, Sherlock tilted his head as he tried to unravel them. "What exactly about the situation makes me uncomfortable?" he asked slowly.

"Me, using you…" John leaned back against the counter. "I…it's easy to think there could be more between us. And I know there won't be but," he seemed lost for a moment as he looked down and then, as if drawing strength, met Sherlock's gaze. "I know that sort of relationship doesn't interest you."

Sherlock tapped his finger on the table. "Say what you mean, John."

"You know what I-"

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and placed his hands on the chair. "We will have this conversation," he decided firmly. "If it does not go well we will simply have to delete it and agree to never speak of it again."

"I'm not…our friendship is important," John muttered stubbornly. "You know what I'm saying and I know you don't want it so why-"

"I am in love with you."

John stopped. Everything about him just seemed to go blank with shock.

"You are not in love with me, though you do care about me," Sherlock continued. "And, I assume, have been making up reasons as to why I have never had a romantic relationship in all the years you have known me."

John sat down, just about making it onto the chair.

"You are not 'in love' with me," Sherlock continued. "But you have at times wondered about us. I assume your assumption that I was uninterested in such a relationship meant that you never took those day dreams seriously."

John still said nothing.

"Yes or no?" Sherlock demanded, frustrated suddenly. "Am I right or-"

"Yes," John mumbled.

Silence.

"I'm going home," Sherlock announced. "The next time you come to see me you had better have decided what you want. Either you act as a friend and we never speak of this again or you come to me as more."

John blinked at him.

Sherlock ended up getting a taxi to the station.

* * *

The phone never rung.

There were no texts. No emails. No blog entries or telegrams. No messages from people.

And slowly, the terrifying third option seemed more and more likely.

They had nothing.

* * *

Sherlock made it seven weeks before he walked into the flat, checked all means of communication one last time and stormed off to the train station. His annoyance was such that even by the time he arrived at the village and got a taxi to John's front door he still felt the snaps of temper.

The bloody man had become a country moron; the front door was open.

John nearly jumped out of his seat at the sight of him. He'd been curled up reading a book and leapt to his feet, the novel crashing to the floor in a sprawl of pages.

"I gave you two options," Sherlock snarled at him. "Not three. We are friends or we are more. I will not settle for anything else."

John glared at him. "You are a fucking frustrating arsehole," John snapped as he bent to pick the book up.

"I told you-"

"I don't know," John yelled. "I don't…I'm a mess, Sherlock. What do you want me to do? I'm in my fifties, I've had a sexual identity crisis, led on far too many people and I still can't even work out what fucking colour I want to paint my sodding bedroom. And you tell me that all this time you've felt…" John shook his head. "I cannot give you a definite answer, I can't tell you what I want because I haven't got a god damned clue. And I will crawl through fire before I start something with you that I can't finish."

He wanted to be angry. To have a fight and…some blurred recollection of those awful films he'd caught a glimpse of blurred into his mind where couples had arguments and gave into sexual tension reared up.

"Blue."

"What?" John snapped, his face screwing up in bafflement.

"Your room," Sherlock said slowly. "Paint it blue."

John looked as if he might start strangling Sherlock any second. "I can't even begin to follow that thought process," he muttered.

"I did that wrong," Sherlock decided as he watched John. "Here's what I can offer."

John opened his mouth, clearly about to launch into another furious rant.

"I have no wish to live with you. Not at the moment. It would be a weekend, long distance affair," Sherlock said, folding his arms as he glared at John. "We have both got our own lives and we are too stubborn to give those up. I would expect monogamy. You have no idea if you could be reliable for me and I have no idea if I could be sexually engaging with you-"

John seemed taken aback.

"We are both terrible choices for each other but it would seem our friendship is ruined. I would rather try this than regret not taking the option so we are now in a relationship."

Silence once more.

"You staying in my room or the guest room?" John asked.

"You may join me in the guest room," Sherlock allowed graciously as he turned to go upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Building Home

Part 2

* * *

_You can join me in the guest room?_

What had he been thinking?

Sherlock made it half way up the stairs before he paused, suddenly starting to think through the practicalities. He had stormed down to Sussex, yelled at John, declared them in a relationship and then-

Then what?

_You can join me in the guest room?_

The footsteps behind him paused. "Sherlock?"

Narrowing his gaze, Sherlock cocked his head to show he was listening.

"Up or down?"

Baffled, he turned to John.

"The stairs," John prompted, looking a little worried. "Are we going up or going back down?"

Back?

They were not going back. Not back to John kissing random men and coming to complain to Sherlock about it. Not back to not talking or John being married to someone else who was annoyingly good for him.

Not back.

Rolling his eyes at John, he continued up the stairs.

"Okay," John said quietly behind him.

Huffing out a breath as he got to the guest bedroom, Sherlock gestured with annoyance for John to get inside. The idiot man looked at him with those unfathomable eyes and a rather bemused expression before he sighed and folded his arms.

"This is not negotiable," Sherlock snapped. "We are spending the night in that bed. Together."

"Sherlock-"

"Probably naked," Sherlock decided. "That will allow us to determine the chemistry of this development in our relationship. We may as well know as soon as possible."

John puffed out a controlled breath, his tongue clicking against his back teeth.

"Don't sigh at me," Sherlock snapped. "This is your fault," he said as he yanked off his coat.

"And you've worked that out how?"

"You have been uncommunicative," Sherlock explained as he tossed his coat at the chair in the corner. "And fickle."

"Sherlock-"

"It's no wonder you used to have such trouble with relationships," Sherlock continued. "I always assumed it was because they were dull," he added as he started to take off his jacket.

"You used to walk into restaurants and demand I come with you on cases. Or grave digging," John added, folding his arms.

"I did that once," Sherlock muttered. "You hold such grudges sometimes. And I never said they couldn't come."

"Sarah came," John protested. "And she got kidnapped. And Mary hardly was safe. You didn't exactly welcome them with open arms."

"Sarah used to make you sleep at the foot of her bed. You were hardly in a great torrid affair," Sherlock pointed out, jacket now off. He slipped his shoes off and bent to take off his socks.

"Are you seriously stripping off?" John asked him, sounding slightly taken aback.

"I told you-"

"Oh God," John groaned throwing his hands up. "You can't just demand…I told you-"

"And I told you and I am far more intelligent than you so I think my opinion counts for more."

John nodded, smirked at him, then turned around and slammed the door shut on his way out of the room.

Ah.

Not entirely sure what else to do, Sherlock threw his balled up socks at the door, then collapsed on the bed, trying to work out where he had gone wrong.

* * *

Four hours later John's light was still on.

Taking a chance, Sherlock wandered over and stood at the door, looking down at John who was still on the mattress on the floor.

"Your opinion is valid," Sherlock said awkwardly as he stared at the floorboards. "To you," he added begrudgingly. "I cannot simply dismiss it because it's stupid."

John watched him and sighed, a slight laugh echoing out. "It…" he frowned and nodded Sherlock into the room. "It's not a race, Sherlock. Or some unpleasant thing we need to rush through."

"I know that."

"It seemed like it," John said steadily.

Relenting, a little, Sherlock stepped in and eyed up the mattress with some distaste. But John was there, watching him, his expression soft and worried and the thin t-shirt he was wearing-

"You make me nervous," Sherlock said, not caring that the words rolled together somewhat as he tried to get through the moment as quickly as possible.

John nodded slowly. "It's a lot to risk," he said gently. "You're my best friend."

The phrase still warmed him, much as it had the first time he had heard it. Annoyed at himself, he folded himself down to sit on the mattress.

"It's more than that," he said slowly. "It's…" he tried to think of a few words that would be fitting. None of them seemed acceptable. "I…do not have the data needed to make this endeavour successful."

John blinked, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "Okay…" he said slowly.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock muttered, looking up at the ceiling. "And you need to plaster," he added, staring at the cracks.

Startled, John looked up. "Bugger," he muttered. "I'll have to get someone in to do that."

"You're far too short," Sherlock agreed.

"And it's a skill to-" John cut himself off with an annoyed breath. "What do you mean you don't have enough data? No-one ever has the right data when they start dating someone. You learn."

Sherlock bristled. "I assume you call upon previous encounters to help navigate current attempts and, through trial and error, know which work more successfully in general and are then able to narrow down and personalise your techniques."

John seemed to collapse against the pillow. "Sherlock, it is three in the morning. Speak moron to me, please?"

Sherlock skittered his gaze away. "Previous relationships help you to predict what will work for current ones."

"Right," John said, sounding as if he still weren't getting what Sherlock was trying to make clear.

"Especially in…" Sherlock took a deep breath and then, annoyed with his own procrastinations, he huffed. "Bed," he finished.

John looked as if he were on the cusp of understanding. Slowly, his mouth dropped a little and he blinked at Sherlock.

"In bed?" he checked.

"Yes," Sherlock gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Okay," John stammered, looking down. "So you've never-"

"No."

"Ah." John opened his mouth to say something and then slammed it shut again.

"Ever?"

"No."

John opened his mouth again, then swallowed the question.

"Oh for God's sake, just ask," Sherlock snapped.

"Um," John swallowed. "Okay, so when you say…is that…how do you quantify…bed?"

What? Pulling a face at John, Sherlock shook his head. "Do speak English, John."

As if steeling himself, John drew in breath. "You're a…you've not had sex?"

"No." Uncomfortable by the wide eyed stare, Sherlock stared at the wall. "People are morons because of it. They are obligated. I dislike being obligated."

"That's not how relationships-"

"Oh of course it is. You have sex and then have to compromise and invariably one person ends up compromising more and then ends up having the husband killed because he won't drop the kids off at ballet lessons."

John seemed to decide it wasn't even worth following that one. "So you…by sex do you mean-"

"Nothing."

"Okay," John nodded. "That's…have you never wanted to?"

Sherlock glared up at the ceiling briefly. "I have witnessed far too many people being stupid over sex. It is a repetitive exercise in which you must listen to much grunting. It hardly seems worth not doing experiments on the kitchen table."

"We don't have to-"

"Not you," Sherlock said dismissively, waving a hand. "You'd be interesting. I cleaned experiments off the table just to have you smile at me some days. Everyone else was boring."

John tilted his head, looking at him with a fond sigh. "Come here," he said softly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Then, with a deep breath, leaned over.

"Just to make me smile?" John asked, reaching out to touch his jaw.

"Sometimes," Sherlock admitted, enjoying the feeling he had at having John's smile directed at him. "Though getting you to yell was equally interesting."

John smile turned to something else, something amused and almost…loving.

"I've managed both tonight," Sherlock pointed out, wanting to see if the smile could change again.

It did, for a flash of a second. John sat up, away from the pillows and Sherlock arranged himself so they were sitting facing each other.

John let out what sounded like a nervous breath and then leaned in. Curious, Sherlock held still, waiting as John's breath ghosted over his lips. Then there was the brush of skin, lips against lips in a testing stroke that made him hyper aware of his lips, as if a tingle of electricity had fizzed over them.

More.

So he leaned forward, deepening the touch until, warm, smooth almost dry lips parted and it was wet, silky and hot.

Oh.

It allowed an ease of movement, an increase in friction and the strangest feeling as if he could breathe John in, as if he could leave a mark or a stamp. As if people would know that they had swapped saliva and there were pieces of each other in each other and that was brilliant. He could feel how alive John was, could feel his breath start to increase. The connection was continuous, an affirmation that John was alive and wanted him. Every millisecond confirmed it and that was gloriously addictive.

Sherlock wanted him closer.

Sliding a hand to John's neck, Sherlock rested his hand there, enjoying the feel of John's fluttering pulse. The kiss deepened and a stroke of a tongue had Sherlock push harder, fascinated to see what responses he could elicit with certain movements. He could taste John. He could feel his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.

What a fantastic way of getting to know someone, to be able to study their mouth with such an underused muscle.

"You've had two fillings," Sherlock murmured as they broke the kiss.

John looked devastating. All red cheeks and blown pupils, short gasps of breath. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes. So-"

"That needs to replicated again," Sherlock decided, leaning forward. "Often."

John laughed and lifted his mouth to Sherlock again. Teasing little nips this time that made Sherlock follow him across the bed, eager for more, for that connection again.

Until somehow, they were on the mattress, side by side.

Strange. Now that they'd started…Sherlock pushed his head into John's shoulder, just breathing him in and not entirely sure he could ever get enough of him. He wanted to taste every inch of him, catalogue reactions, know how John moved, how his muscles responded. Sliding a hand underneath the t-shirt John was wearing, he pushed it up, trying to get-

"We don't have to," John started to say.

"I never do anything I have to do," Sherlock muttered at him. "You are completely mistaking inexperience for innocence. Now shut up and let me work this out."

John laughed and raised his neck a little, allowing enough room to push the t-shirt up and over his head. "Go on then, my mad genius. Learn away."

There were scars. Some that John had received before he'd met Sherlock; the shoulder wound, a ridge from shrapnel coming back at him. The rest John had earned standing side to side with Sherlock. There was a faded burn mark, a line from the tip of a blade. Lower down, when Sherlock managed to wriggle John out of his pyjama bottoms, there was the deep wound where John had been shot in the leg on a case.

Sherlock had nearly killed the man responsible. Mary had listened to the story and, when Sherlock had admitted he had pulled away, had simply thrown him a look that had suggested she may not have had the same control.

They'd both sat by John's bed for an age. Sherlock had pushed John to lose the cane again while Mary had soothed him. Together they had worked to bring him back.

He wasn't sure he liked that scar as much as the others. All were fascinating; they all prompted a different reaction from John; some seemed sensitive, others not at all.

John laughed when Sherlock examined his feet. It turned into a ridiculous game that they were both far too old for as Sherlock tried to study the sensitive toes and John squirmed, reaching out to tickle his sides and then swearing in frustration when he realised Sherlock wasn't ticklish there.

"You're being childish," Sherlock scolded, reaching over to capture John's lips again.

John showed him just how much he cared by fisting his hand in the shirt Sherlock was still wearing and using it to tug him on top of John. From that point it turned frantic, delicious strokes of hands, John fumbling with Sherlock's trousers and their lips becoming super-glued together.

Sherlock wanted to inhale every one of John's breaths, his pants and gasps. It seemed like such a waste to do anything else.

When John wrapped a hand around them both it was gloriously different to his own attempts at masturbation. Someone else's hand, the feel of a living person, the constant tangible reminder of the fact that John wanted him, that his body wanted. Feeling the desire in the body underneath was what pushed him over, watching the lust deepen in John's eyes as Sherlock orgasmed made it all the stronger just before John tumbled after him.

Laying on top of him, panting and nipping at John's shoulder, Sherlock sighed, feeling rather content.

"Satisfactory for a relationship?" he asked, rather smug.

"Mm," John nodded. "Sure."

Sure?

Unimpressed, Sherlock pushed himself off of John and glared down. The effect was somewhat lost by the fact that John had his eyes shut.

Sherlock jabbed at his ribs which made John wince and roll over. Then John reached back for Sherlock and pulled him close.

"Monogamy," John murmured sleepily. "Long distance. Separate lives. Want you."

Amused, Sherlock brushed his lips against John's skin. "Are you always this useless after an orgasm?"

"Just the good ones," John yawned.

Pleased, Sherlock rolled a little so he could see the window and reached to switch of the lamp on the floor next to the bed.

* * *

The next encounter was in Sherlock's bed back in Baker Street.

And the next.

And the next.

"Does it annoy you?" he asked one night, turning to John in his bed.

"You talking at night?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's shoulder. "I haven't been to yours yet."

John shrugged. "Not really your thing, the country," he said with a sigh. "I sort of expected this."

Oh.

Unsure of what to do with the information, Sherlock turned back to settle his mind to the triple murder.

Far easier to work out.

* * *

Perhaps it was the sex.

Sherlock had been introduced to the wonderful experience of fellatio which, in his mind was delicious. They'd both stumbled their way through it at first and there had been a wonder about that; learning something together and laughing at a few failed attempts.

But they hadn't had anal.

"Huh?" John asked when Sherlock brought it up the next time John visited London.

"Anal," Sherlock repeated as they walked.

"We're in the street," John muttered as they walked out of the station and Sherlock held up a hand to flag a taxi.

"I'm not suggesting doing it right now," Sherlock muttered, turning to glare at John. "For one I am led to believe it takes a certain amount of preparation beforehand."

"It…" John looked around as if to find someone to help him out. "Sherlock we are old men, we cannot be talking about anal in the middle of the street."

"You're old." Sherlock opened the door of the taxi that pulled over.

John climbed in after him. "No. I am just aware that not everyone wants to listen to our private life."

"Sex life," Sherlock corrected absently. "Baker Street," he called to the cabbie. "So, do you want it?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, he doesn't care," Sherlock said dismissively. "As long as we are not spreading body fluids across his upholstery he won't give a damn. Now, do you want it?"

John leaned back. "Uh-"

"I know there will be a learning curve, for both of us-"

John narrowed his gaze. "I've done it before," he said slowly.

What?

Sherlock paused and tried to process that. "How?"

"A few girlfriends," John shrugged.

"Oh." Sherlock settled back, feeling distinctly annoyed about that. "What makes you assume you'd be giving?"

John opened his mouth and then shut it. "I…I just assumed that the first time it might work better that way. I don't mind giving it a go but…there is a certain technique to not…to ensuring that the other person enjoys it."

"And you don't think I could learn it quick enough?" Sherlock asked, vaguely insulted.

"No," John said slowly. "I just…it's also not for everyone. One of us may enjoy it more. All I am saying is that if we are both going to have a go at…at doing both then it would make more sense to have me do you first."

In the mirror, Sherlock could see the taxi driver was trying not to snigger.

"Maybe you did it wrong," Sherlock decided with a sniff. "If some of your girlfriends didn't enjoy it perhaps you didn't have the 'right technique'. Or maybe they were just dull. You could be basing your assumptions on completely irrelevant data."

John's expression clouded for a moment and he looked out of the window.

"Too harsh?" Sherlock asked after a moment as the silence dragged on.

"Mary didn't like it."

Ah.

Sherlock glared at the ceiling of the taxi. In one fell swoop he'd managed to give John doubts about the sex life he'd experienced with his dead wife and insult that same dead wife.

"An exception that proves the rule?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John flashed him a weak smile.

* * *

They didn't have sex that weekend.

It was annoying.

John fiddled with the third finger of his left hand for a lot of it and went to visit Mary's grave.

That was worrying.

* * *

It took three months for Sherlock to make it down to John's again. They sat in the garden and Sherlock inspected the tiny patch of poisons that John had begrudgingly allowed him to plant last time.

"Do you miss her?"

It was a stupid question.

And equally stupid to be hurt when John nodded.

What else had Sherlock expected?

* * *

There were other questions he wanted to ask.

What would you have done had you known about me earlier?

Would you still choose her over me?

Would we have faded from each other's lives by now if she had lived?

If both of us were captured and had a gun to our heads, who would you save?

What did you do with your wedding ring?

Whose grave did you visit more often?

Whose death devastated you more?

* * *

He was selfish and possessive.

And John's heart would always be Mary's.

Either Sherlock learned to live with what he had or he had to end it.


	3. Chapter 3

Building Home

Part Three

* * *

He woke to confusion.

Hospital?

Had he been shot? Stabbed? Poisoned?

It didn't feel like any of those?

Drugs?

He was on them now, he could tell.

There was a weight on his legs which, when he peered down, turned out to be John, snoring on his knee.

He lifted it slightly, jerking John awake.

"Why am I here?" he asked, hating the amount of effort it took just to form one question, a slurred question at that.

"You had a heart attack," John breathed, staring at him with a pale face.

Oh.

How common.

* * *

John stayed with him during his recovery. The Yard looked at him as if he were old and Mycroft lectured him about the perks of sitting down more.

It was all very dull.

John wouldn't even have sex with him. As if that wouldn't be the best way to die.

* * *

John took him home when Sherlock started to feel better. Something about ensuring Sherlock didn't push himself too soon.

His heart sunk when he saw the place.

John still hadn't painted that damned bedroom.

For some reason it was all he could think of. And, when he made his escape and returned to London alone he visited Mary's grave and stared at it.

"You are dead," he hissed at it. "You are dead and gone. Let him go."

The grave didn't reply.

* * *

John seemed burdened by something when he next visited.

Soon, Sherlock thought as he played the violin.

Was it better to have lost and loved or to never have loved at all?

Better to have remained friends.

* * *

"You do not want this," Sherlock decided one day.

John stopped dead and turned to him, folding his arms. "I beg your pardon," he said dangerously.

Maybe he was in denial. "You. You still don't know what you want," Sherlock said, looking down the street at the crime scene they had been called to. "I do not want you to stay with me out of false sense of duty."

John stared at him.

"I will not play second best. Certainly not to a dead lawyer," Sherlock added resolute in his argument.

Temper started to light up John's eyes as he pressed his mouth together. "Play second best?" John asked in a dangerous tone.

"We haven't had sex, we've barely been intimate since that annoying thing-"

"Heart attack," John growled.

"-months ago. So, John, if you had the choice, which of us would you rather fuck? Her or-"

He never got any further.

John punched him.

It was hard enough to make him stagger in shock and touch his jaw as John stormed away without a word.

The crime scene looked boring anyway, Sherlock decided as he glanced at the stunned looking officers and turned after John.

* * *

John was jabbing at the keyboard when Sherlock walked in.

Surprising. Sherlock had assumed he would be packing or even going after the bloody kettle

Without a single word, John turned the laptop to Sherlock and shoved it at him.

It was a property-

Oh!

Oh.

John was selling his house.

"I don't know," John said, sounding hurt. "I don't know which of you I would have chosen. And while you're a fucking arsehole, she would have done nothing to have deserved that from me. Nothing."

Sherlock opened his mouth and found that there were no words to make it better.

Nothing.

So he stared down at the screen as John went up to his old bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

"Why are you selling the house?" Sherlock asked softly.

John lurked at his bedroom door, a strange shadowed form in the moonlight. "Because you had a heart attack," he whispered. "You had a heart attack and it took me two hours to get to you. And that was with Mycroft's help." John stepped into the room and folded his arms. "You could have died before I got there."

"It was a heart attack," Sherlock dismissed, sitting up from where he'd been laying on the bed, thinking. "I'm not going to die from a heart attack."

John shook his head. "Just because you're an arrogant wanker does not change the fact that your heart works just the same as everyone else's on the planet."

Sherlock doubted that. "Really? Name me someone else that wants to ask you to choose between the love of your life and your friend."

"That would be really fucking difficult," John said in a furious tone. "Given they're the same person."

Shocked, Sherlock stared at him.

"She was my wife. I loved her with every bone in my body and still do. She made the world calm and still. She made roast dinner and burned the carrots. We were going to have children and a dog and I was going to move closer to you and-" John shook his head. "She was my family, my future, my heart.

"But you?" John took a breath. "I can't put it into words. You gave me purpose. You always gave me…an entire fucking world at my feet just because I stood next to you. And if you think I am staying in fucking Sussex while you kill yourself with cases then you have another one coming. The house will be sold, I'll move here-"

"The house is for you-" Sherlock said, not at all sure what to say.

"You are for me," John hissed. "I don't know what would have happened," he said honestly. "If I'd have known…I hope I'd have done right by her, that neither of you would have been hurt. But I don't know. I don't know," he breathed, as if hurt just by that one fact. "But I know she wouldn't want me alone and miserable. If it were the other way around you'd probably demand that I die a hermit, worshiping your image with my dying breath."

Sherlock almost smiled.

"I love both of you," John said swallowing. "Differently but…but equally. So stop being a tit."

Sherlock stared at him.

"I love you," John added, firming his chin. "Please believe that."

How long had he hoped to hear those words from John? Even thinking of it made his heart ache. Not at all sure what to do with the information that he had so longed to hear, Sherlock took a deep breath and said the only thing that came to mind. "Your vocabulary is shocking if you have to swear that much," he said slowly.

John nodded, as if expecting such a ridiculous reply to his confession.

It seemed…wrong. John deserved so much more than Sherlock. He deserved…

He deserved Mary.

"She was better for you," Sherlock said suddenly. "And as for…I wouldn't have let you be put in that position. You would never have known I was an option. To have known…I would have ruined you with it."

John let out a shaken breath and reached for him.

"I…" John brushed a hand through Sherlock's hair. "You are the best man I have ever known," he said softly. "But you do hide it very well," he added with a wet laugh.

Sherlock nodded. "You are the only person in the world that thinks that," he decided, pulling John close.

* * *

Five weeks later, Sherlock went down to the house.

John was stood at the garden, staring out at it as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him.

"Had a buyer," John said with an unhappy sigh.

"I know," Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to John's neck.

"Could you tell it from my shoes?" John asked with a weak attempt at humour.

"No," Sherlock said with a smile. "I could tell because I bought it."

He could feel the shock run through John. Keeping his arms around John and refusing to let the man turn around, Sherlock lay his chin on John's shoulder.

"You've lost someone once, John," Sherlock said quietly. "I will not allow you to go through that again. And I am not as spry as I once was. This…" he said looking out at the garden. "This is all I need now. A project, you. Distance from Mycroft-"

John chuckled and leaned into him. "You said you'd be bored here," he murmured.

"I said it is boring here. But you can make the ordinary into something wonderful," Sherlock decided looking at their garden.

John covered Sherlock's arms with his own. "Did you really buy the house?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes."

"So…you've just wasted over five thousand pounds on solicitor's fees, taxes and estate agents fees?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The gesture of me just telling you didn't seem quite as grand," he muttered.

John threw his head back and laughed.

"And we can paint that bloody room," Sherlock growled, letting go of him. "And get a bed. And bees. And extend that poison patch."

"Huh," John nodded and turned to look at him. "And do you know what money you could have used to have done that? The money you just spent on a gesture-"

"A romantic gesture," Sherlock argued, folding his arms. "I bought you your house."

John winced. "Go halves?" he asked tilting his head. "Though you can pay the additional costs-"

"That's hardly going halves," Sherlock complained. "This is our home, John. Don't be so selfish."

"And Baker Street?" John asked suddenly seeming to sober. "What about-"

"Mrs Hudson has gone and so had you," Sherlock said looking at their house with new eyes. "Hardly the same now. Could we get bats in the attic?"

"No," John said, standing next to him.

"What if the attic is in my half of the house?"

"That's not how it works," John protested. "We do not have sections, we share."

"Technically it is my house at the moment," Sherlock argued. "Technically I can do what I want until you give me the money."

"Technically, you would need to borrow money from me to do anything," John argued, smiling.

Sensing he might be losing, Sherlock switched track. "Fine. But I want the bees and poisons."

"Fine. We'll section up the garden. You can have those and I'll grow the cures."

"Fine."

Sherlock nodded as John made his way into the house and headed for that bloody kettle.

Home.

Amused, he followed John.

For once.


End file.
